


Good Choices and Bad Choices

by Winnie_Chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Dialing, Drunk Sam, M/M, Pie, Sam at Stanford, Stanford Era, Thanksgiving, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love, slightly suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 17:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2477057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnie_Chester/pseuds/Winnie_Chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam drunk dials Dean during his first Thanksgiving at Stanford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Choices and Bad Choices

Sam was alone.

It was November, and Sam hadn’t seen his brother in months. Sam hadn’t met Jessica yet, was only just starting to find the crowd he would eventually call friends. 

The dorms were a ghost town, nearly everyone gone for Thanksgiving. Sam had spent the last three hours lying on the dirty industrial carpet of his room in the dark, drinking cheap whiskey he’d bought with the fake ID Dean had given him for his 18th birthday.

College was going well and when the dorms were bustling and there were classes to attend, Sam knew he’d made the right choice. He was in a better place than he’d been in before he’d left. He was keeping himself incredibly busy, determined to take full advantage of his first chance to really concentrate only on his education, and it was working. It had been the right choice, and Sam was fine. 

At least, all of that is what he told himself, over and over, a million times a day. _Right choice. Your doing fine._ He thought one day he’d probably believe it.

But this break was torture. With the nearly silent halls, the practically empty dining hall--it was too much space to think, and, frankly, Sam was not handling it well. He’d finished both papers he been assigned the first day, and had been getting progressively more antsy since. He’d tried reading ahead in his textbooks, tried watching the parade and then the football games alone in the common room but he was just too restless, too on edge to really concentrate on anything. He felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin. 

He’d paced the floor, done laundry and refolded all his t-shirts, jimmied open the mysterious always locked door by the bathrooms (extra toilet paper, mostly), and failed at napping twice before he’d decided to break out the bottle. 

If he was honest with himself—and he was trying desperately not to be, because he was _fine,_ damn it --he missed Dean. They’d never had a real Thanksgiving together, maybe some frozen turkey dinners if they were lucky, but they had also never spent one completely apart, either. 

But it wasn’t just the holiday. He missed Dean always. He missed bantering with him, playing pool together, and the sound of his breathing at night. He missed the feel of Dean’s hand screwing up his hair, and the easy way he could communicate a thousand things to Sam with just a lift of his eyebrows. He just missed his presence, the assurance that Dean was there, and therefore everything was going to be all right. Not being around Dean, not knowing what he was doing—no, Sam had made the right choice. Everything was fine. 

Sam was wearing Dean’s hoodie, the one he’d stolen the night he left. Another thing he was trying very hard not to examine. 

Sam rested the bottle on his stomach, surprised to find nearly half of it gone. He didn’t feel drunk, not yet, but he hadn’t tried standing up in a while, either. 

Sam was a total lightweight—it was something Dean loved to tease him about. 

But he wasn’t going to think about Dean.

Sam missed Dean. Sam missed Dean the way he imagined you’d miss a limb. He missed Dean so fully he marveled that he’d managed to keep breathing. 

Sam took another sip of whiskey. He knew he’d regret it in the morning, but at least nursing a hangover would give some shape to his day. A pain to hide the other constant ache. 

His stomach growled and he wondered vaguely if he had any food stashed away in his room. He’d eaten a fairly large not-actually-that-bad turkey dinner alone in the dinning hall earlier, but Sam’s metabolism had gotten insane, and he was basically always hungry. 

He wondered if he had any cash for the vending machines in the lobby. 

Dean had always— _NO._

Sam rolled over onto his stomach, before slowly pushing himself onto his knees, then standing. The world sloshed a bit, but Sam figured he could make it downstairs for some Doritos without much problem. It was a mission. Something else to think about for five minutes. He grabbed his wallet off his desk, and his cellphone and tried not to notice that he had no missed calls. 

He banged his shin on his dresser on the way out the door, and nearly called the whole thing off when he stepped into the aggressive brightness of the hallway’s fluorescent lights. He decided to take the elevator even though he was only on the third floor, because breaking his neck by drunkenly falling down the stairs was not how Sam wanted to die.

There had been awhile where Sam had wanted to die, had wanted to very much and in any manner. To be honest, he wasn’t 100% sure he was totally over that yet. 

The doors opened and Sam slowly made his way to the vending machines, grateful the security guard was on his cellphone and paying Sam absolutely no attention at all. Sam pulled his own phone out of his pocket again. 

No missed calls. Which was fine. 

There hadn’t been any since he’d left. Just like he’d made Dean promise. And Dean always kept his promises to Sam. 

Sam put $5 in the machine, and bought himself two bags of chips, some trail mix and bought Dean some peanut M&Ms, because Dean was just the worst if Sam came back to the room without something for him. 

It wasn’t until Sam bent to scoop everything out of the tray and start shoving it in his pockets— _Dean’s_ hoodie pockets—that he realized what he’d done. Sam felt his eyes prickle, and punched the machine.

“Hey, knock it off! If it ate your money just call the damn number!” the security guy shouted, disapproving. 

“Sorry!” Sam shouted back, pretty sure he didn’t slur it. He did not need an alcohol violation. He might not be totally happy here, but he knew he couldn’t go back home, either. He gave the guy what he hoped was a sheepish, and not a drunk, smile as he got back on the elevator. 

Back on his floor, Sam stumbled down the hall towards his room. He searched his pockets for his keys—all the doors locked automatically—before realizing he’d never actually bothered to grab them on his way out. _Fucking fuck fuck._ His lockpick kit was inside, too, of course. 

He blinked at the door, not sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. Both, really.

He slid against the wall, and set the vending machine feast around him. God _damn_ it. He was too drunk to ask an RA to open it, and even if he hadn’t been the bottle of whiskey was sitting in the middle of the floor clear as day, anyway. He wasn’t sure what to do. 

He flipped open his phone. Closed it. Opened one of the bags of chips. Flipped open his phone again. Still no missed calls. 

_Fuck it._ Sam had only been making bad choices tonight, anyway. 

Sam was absurdly grateful when Dean picked up on the third ring. He heard bar sounds in the background. 

“Sam?” Dean sounded surprised to hear from him. Sam had only called once since he’d left. 

Dean’s voice sounded like home, felt like being punched.

Sam closed his eyes, leaned his head against the frame of his locked door. “I bought you some M&Ms.” 

“What? Sam? Are you okay?” 

Sam shook his head, but didn’t answer. _Fine,_ he thought, panicky. _I’m fine._ But Dean never believed him when he lied. “I think I uh maybe live in the hall now.”

Dean paused, considered. “Are you drunk?”

“’Course I’madrunk! I don’t just buy you M&Ms all the time!” 

“Hang on, kid.” Sam heard Dean talking to someone, muffled, and then the bar noise faded; Dean stepping outside. “Okay, I’m back. What is going on?” Sam heard the snick of a car door. 

_I can’t be with you and I can’t be away from you and it feels like dying_ he thought. But instead: “Are you in the car? I miss the car.” Sam tried not to slur, afraid Dean would hang up.

“Yeah, it is fuckin’ cold out here.” A few beats went by. Sam had a thousand things he wanted to say, but chewed his lip instead, drawing blood. It felt right, that talking to his brother tonight should physically hurt, should taste like copper. “So… .” Dean waited. “What did you want?” Even drunk, Sam caught the edge in Dean’s voice. Sam’s leaving had hurt Dean, deeply, and Sam knew calling him out of the blue like this was unfair, maybe cruel. It wasn’t good for either of them. 

“I just—“ _I miss you._

“Because if I recall correctly, you told me you wanted to be left alone.” Which was, in fact, a thing Sam had made himself say. The words had felt like razor blades. 

“I shouldn’t—“ Sam’s voice caught, strangled. He swallowed, tried again. “I’m drunk. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have called.” Sam knew he should hang up now, but Sam had almost never been able to make good choices when it came to Dean. It was one of the many things he hated about himself. It was why he didn’t trust himself around him. 

“Hey.” Dean’s voice was softer. It tore into Sam. “I—I want to hear from you, okay? Always. I’m following your rules. What do you need?” _What I can’t have,_ Sam thought wildly. _You._

“I’m drunk ‘n I locked myself out of my room. I’m stuck ‘n the fuckin’ hall. Probably forever.” Which wasn’t what Sam wanted to tell Dean, but would have to do.

Dean laughed, a real laugh, which Sam hadn’t been expecting. He felt some of the tension slide out of his shoulders. He fucking loved Dean’s laugh.

He fucking loved everything about Dean.

“How can you be locked out of anything? You are better at picking locks than Dad and I combined!” Which was true, actually. 

“But I don’tave anything! And ‘m drunk.” Dean laughed again. God Sam had missed that. He wished he could listen to Dean laugh forever. 

“Come on, college boy. You are telling me that you cannot find even a single goddamn paperclip up in that ivory tower of yours?” 

“Fuckin’damnit.” Of course Dean would have the answers. Sam was pissed at himself for not thinking of it. 

Dean was enjoying himself now. “Everyone always did say I was the smart one and the pretty one!” Sam felt his chest tighten. He did not ever need to be reminded how pretty his brother was. 

Sam slid his weight back up the wall, and staggered towards the common room. There was bound to be a paperclip in the recycling, or on one of the tables. 

“I’m gonna look.” He flipped on the light and spotted one immediately. “Got it. Thank fuck.” His life was still barely above falling apart, but at least he wasn’t going to have to sleep in the hall. 

“Glad I could solve your problems. Go sleep it off, Sammy.” 

“No! Wait!” It had been a terrible idea to call, so fucking stupid really, and selfish, so fucking selfish, but now that he had his brother on his phone Sam just couldn’t let him go so quickly. He knew he wouldn’t let himself call again for ages, maybe ever again if he was smart, and he couldn’t say goodbye just yet. 

“Need me to help you with something else incredibly obvious, Princess?”

“I just … no one is here. Talk to me until I get this open?” Sam knelt by his door, put the phone on the floor, on speaker. 

“What do you want me to say, Sam?” Dean sighed, the sharpness back in his voice. 

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t—and I’ve—no right to ask—but, just, just anything okay?” Sam’s voice more ragged than he’d intended. 

There was silence, and for a moment Sam wondered if Dean had hung up. Thought he should probably be hoping for that.

“I had the worst pie of my life today.” 

“Yeah?” Sam prompted him, breaking the paperclip in half and slipping it in the lock.

“I was in a gas station, one with one of those little food shop café things in it, right? And there was this display case filled with just all these gorgeous looking pies. I mean pumpkin and apple and pecan and cherry. And I thought damn, I’m lucky, it being Thanksgiving and all.” Sam made a little _mmhmm_ noise, wiggling the paperclip around. This was much harder to do, drunk. 

“I mean, I can’t believe they aren’t sold out. I’ve been having trouble finding pie all week for that very reason. So I bought myself an entire apple pie because hey, it’s a holiday. And as the cashier was ringing me up, he was like ‘Good luck, buddy’ and I thought he was just being nice, yano?”

The door click opened, and Sam tumbled in, tossing the junk food towards his desk and collapsing back onto the floor, patting the carpet gratefully, wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder. 

“So the whole drive I’m thinking about this pie. I cannot wait for dinner. So I finally check in somewhere and I get out a fork, ready to dig in and, my god Sam, if it wasn’t the worst pie in the world. I mean, no wonder it hadn’t sold out! Everyone in this goddamn town must have known this shop makes the worst fucking pies in the world. That cashier was laughing at me!” Dean’s voice was getting louder, more animated, and Sam felt dizzy by it. He could lay on the floor forever, letting his brother’s voice wash over him. “I mean, that display case was basically full of lies! LIES, Sammy. I’ve never been so goddamn disappointed in my entire life. I ought to go back and salt and burn the joint on principal, you know?”

Sam laughed. It was the first time he had really laughed in weeks. “How bad could it have possibly been? I mean, it was still pie.”

“Before today, I’d have thought that too, little brother. I’d have thought that too.” 

Sam could picture his brother shaking his head, sadly. He imagined it would be ages before he got over The Great Thanksgiving Pie Disappointment. 

Dean cleared his throat. “So, anyway, did you get in yet?” Sam wanted to lie, keep him on the phone longer, but he didn’t know what to say. And it was unfair to Dean. This had gone on entirely too long and shouldn’t have happened in the first place. 

Sam swallowed. “Yeah, I’m in. … Um, thanks. For, you know, for… . Thanks.” Sam put his hand over his eyes and knocked his head against the floor, hard. He realized his whole day had been building towards this, realized somewhere he’d known he was going to call from the moment he woke up, certainly from the moment he’d opened the bottle. Fuck, it was why he’d bought the bottle. 

“ ‘course. Anytime.” Dean’s words were weighted funny, and between the whiskey and his own self-loathing Sam couldn’t quite read Dean’s tone. “Night, Sammy.” Dean hung up before Sam could figure out what to say back. It was probably for the best, because Sam could taste the _I miss you_ on his tongue, and wasn’t sure he could have kept the _and also I’m in love with you_ out of his voice. 

Sam threw the phone at the wall, disgusted with himself. Leaving was the right choice, even if Sam wasn't fine.


End file.
